


Plotting face

by andonewillbringhisfall



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andonewillbringhisfall/pseuds/andonewillbringhisfall
Summary: Idk how to summarise this it's just fluff





	Plotting face

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic from my Tumblr v short v fluffy

_Before._

Every now and then Baz will look at me with this expression that I’ve come to know as his plotting face. His eyes will narrow just slightly, and his chin will tilt up just a little, and there’ll be a tiny crease between his eyebrows, and this cloudy look in his eyes, like he’s deep in thought even while he looks straight at me.

Like I said. Plotting face.

Sometimes I catch him watching me in class with the plotting face. On those days he usually ends up picking a fight with me up in our room. Probably to throw me off my guard. I’ve seen him give me the plotting face while I’m carelessly shoving down food in the dining hall, as though he’ll find some way to use my awful table manners against me. (Maybe poison.) That day that he forged the note from Agatha and I came back in the early morning shivering, cheeks red from the cold and hair dusted with snow, he blatantly stared across the room with his plotting face. 

‘Maybe that’s just his face,’ Penny says. ‘He has resting plotting face.’ 

‘If he has resting plotting face, it’s because he’s  _always_  plotting,’ I say.

I’ve learned to recognise the plotting face. I never know what he’s up to, so he’s always a few steps ahead, but at least this way I can know  _when_  he’s up to something. (Which is pretty much always.)

  


  


_After._

Baz has stayed over for the fourth night in a row this week. It’s evening now, and we’re sitting on the couch together watching some show, and I’m hoping he stays again. He has one arm slung around my shoulders and the other hand mindlessly stroking patterns along my palm. It’s getting really dark outside and he’s showing no signs of that he plans to leave.  _Good._

I know it’s a bit stupid, but he’s never stayed over more than four nights in a row before, and I’m sort of hoping he breaks the record. I don’t know, it just feels like it might mean something. (Like being one step closer to  _I love you_.)

The credits start rolling and I glance over at Baz. His head is nestled on my shoulder and his eyes are half-closed.

He’s beautiful like this. (He’s always beautiful). Sleepy and unguarded. If I told him that, he’d mock me endlessly.

I kiss his widow’s peak, and he smiles lazily. Fuck it, I’m just going to tell him.

‘Hey Baz?’

‘What?’

I try not to blush. ‘You’re really beautiful,’ I mumble.

He sits up and his arm drops from around my shoulders. He’s giving me this look, with that little crease between his eyebrows - 

I point at him accusingly. ‘Plotting face,’ I say.

He frowns. ‘What?’

‘You’re wearing your plotting face.’ 

He swats my hand out of his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Snow.’

I pout. ‘Sure you do. You always look at me like that when you’re plotting something.’  _Is_  he plotting something? I look at him suspiciously. (Not that I think he’s plotting something nefarious, exactly - no, I trust him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still have some trick up his sleeve.)

Baz barks out a laugh. ‘You call this my  _plotting face_?’ He scoots forward on the couch and reaches out to brush his fingers down my cheek, still smirking.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to duck out of his reach, though I’m at the end of the couch and there isn’t really anywhere to go. ‘You had that face on after you left me out in the snow.’  


He shakes his head. ‘I still have no idea what you’re on about.’

‘That day I stayed out all night and came back after the drawbridge was lowered in the morning.’  


He smiles. ‘That’s because you had snowflakes in your hair.’ He leans forward and kisses the moles on my cheek.

I narrow my eyes. ‘What?’

He laughs again, pressing a kiss to the spot beneath my ear.

‘That wasn’t my plotting face, you idiot, it’s my madly in love face,’ he says.  


I freeze.

‘Honestly, Snow,’ he continues, wrapping both arms around my waist, ‘haven’t you figured anything out by now?’  


He’s kissing my neck, and it’s distracting me from the other thing, what was the other thing? Oh yes.

‘Baz,’ I gasp. ‘You said love.’  


He stops and lifts his head so we’re at eye-level. ‘I did,’ he says carefully.

I reach up and clutch at a fistful of his hair. ‘I love you,’ I say, trying to pull him closer to me.

‘Of course I love you,’ he says, and stops to let me kiss him. ‘But, Simon -’  


‘What?’ (I’m a little bit breathless.)

‘I’d love you even more if you stopped accusing me of plotting.’


End file.
